


Night and Day

by pokey_jr



Series: The Yeehaw Chronicles [4]
Category: Red Dead Redemption, Red Dead Redemption 2
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, F/M, Multi, Prostitute, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 15:31:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16835449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pokey_jr/pseuds/pokey_jr
Summary: Dutch takes Arthur to a prostitute, all to prove a point.





	Night and Day

**Author's Note:**

> So I figured that Arthur doesn't hook up with anyone in the game for two reasons. One, Mary Linton. Two, he doesn't want to risk having another kid.  
> Reader is a prostitute in this, and there is M/F anal sex.
> 
> Also. No bear grease as lube! idk who started that in this fandom, but it's gross, and doesn't even make sense, because vaseline existed as a product by 1899.

“Assholes are made to be fucked, Arthur. A great man once said that and I firmly believe it to be true. Now, the lady’s time is precious, so…”

“Ahhh, I don’t know about this, Dutch. Did that great man happen to be your beloved Mr Miller? Cause he says a whole lotta things. Besides, it ain’t— well it just ain’t natural.”

Two men stand before you, and while they are not quite each other’s opposite, they contrast in an intriguing way. A self-styled gentleman thief and his enforcer. You watch them with open curiosity from your perch on the bed.

The one called Arthur looks down at you with trepidation, one thumb hooked in the buckle of his low-slung holster. When you wink at him, he scowls, so you do him one better and blow a kiss. His jaw twitches, and his gaze drops to your cleavage.

He’s handsome in a rough way, broadly built and hulking, whereas his companion is refined, with dark hair and a languid elegance. As a pair, they’re a good sight better than your normal clientele, their combined menace sparking a low heat in your core. This will be no ordinary night on your back.

“Natural?” Dutch is already shrugging out of his waist coat, as if he’s convinced his friend that he’s right. “Oh, Arthur, come up with a better excuse. You think drinking and smoking and the hazards of our line of work are natural?”

“’Course not.” Arthur shifts on his feet, now assessing you with lust in his eyes. You can tell. You’ve been doing this long enough, and a woman can always tell. “It’s just, well… you know what happened with—with _her_.”

“Yes I do, and unless your aim is off, that won’t be a problem. Only coitus can possibly result in a pregnancy, isn’t that right, girl?”

Oh, he’s talking to you. “Oui monsieur.”

“You can drop the accent.” He loosens his cravat, and Arthur begins to follow suit, shedding his bandolier and coat and gun belt. “And even if you decide to maintain the charade, I’m sure we’ll hear you scream in proper English before the night is done. Won’t we, Arthur?”

“I suppose.” Arthur holds out his hand; you take it and he draws you to your feet. Plain need radiates from him. He’s restrained himself for a very long time, and you hear it in the low, appreciative rumble as he pulls you close and runs his hands over your body. He smells of woodsmoke and cloves and tobacco and bourbon.

You feel yourself grow warmer with him. Genuine pleasure with a customer is a rare indulgence, but you doubt you’ll have to fake it with these two. Arthur’s hand slides from your waist to your ass, he hisses in a breath grabbing it.

“Goddamn, woman.” He grabs again, his other hand coming to the back of your neck, tangling in your hair. You meet his eyes just long enough to see the hunger there, and some deeper concern, but most of your rational thought dissipates when he kisses you.

No pretense with this one. No bluster.

His lips are softer than you expect, a little chapped. _Here’s what I want_ , he seems to say with simple urgency. _All of you. Everything you have._

You cleave to him, feel the hard ridge of his cock through layers of clothing. He tastes good. You want his shirt off, break the kiss to get at the buttons.

He watches you, patient but intent, and finally voices: “You think it’s so goddamn funny don’t you Dutch. Choosing a woman who looks like her.”

“I know you’ve always had a type.” Dutch has gone to the small in room bar, returned with two drinks. None for you, of course. His courteous façade only extends so far.

“And I know you ain’t picky. Heard you with Miss Grimshaw in your tent the other night. She always was a screamer.”

“And you were always a smartass, Arthur. Some things never change. Where do you keep the oil, girl?”

“In the drawer of the nightstand… _monsieur_.” You give him your most cloying smile. “There is vaseline, too. Though perhaps your friend doesn’t need it?”

Dutch’s expression is an attempt at something withering and cold. You’ve only just met him and you’ve yet to be impressed. Another preening outlaw pretending to a life of leisure, though with minimal change in morals.  
“Trust me, you’ll want it. Even though I expect a girl of your profession is accustomed to such things, Arthur is--” Dutch gives a theatrical cough, “-- _gifted._ ”

With that, Arthur is all over you once more, uncaring that Dutch is your audience.

“You gotta help me, darlin,” he murmurs against your neck. “I may be a brute but I got no intention of hurting you, so just—“ he breaks off with a groan when you palm his erection through his trousers. “—just tell me if I do something wrong. And get your goddamn clothes off before I tear them off you.”

You acquiesce, breathless. As you discard items, he kisses and bites newly-exposed skin, from your neck to your tits to your stomach. Somewhere during this you end up reclined on the bed, Arthur half over you, his knee between your thighs, and you grinding on it wantonly. Finally, your skirt comes off, leaving you nude save for your thigh high stockings and the garters and belt holding them up.

“Would you be a dear and hand me the oil?” You ask him. “Or the vaseline, whichever you prefer the feel of.”

“Sure.” His voice is low, a little hoarse, and he stands after handing you the oil.

“Now, I want you to watch.” You glance over to see Dutch nursing a second whiskey, stroking himself through his trousers. “Both of you.”

You roll over, ass in the air. 

“Well ain’t you a picture of refined femininity,” Arthur quips.

You peek around at him with a little smile, then upend the bottle. Oil dribbles out, you feel it cold and viscous on your ass, and dripping lower. Without touching yourself you know you’re wet already. Your core throbs with unmet need. Just a bit longer. You’re working, after all. Must give the men what they paid for.

That being: a show.

Making sure you maintain eye contact with one of them or the other, you reach a hand over and back and start playing with yourself. Slowly, carefully, teasing pleasure from your senses when you’re already aching. If Dutch has told the truth about one thing this evening, you’d guess it was the comment about Arthur’s cock.

So you prepare yourself, thoroughly. Work one oiled finger in, pause to enjoy Arthur blushing at the spectacle. A second finger, and Dutch sets down his empty glass, undoes his trousers and pulls his cock out. A third gets Arthur to slug back his drink and return to you.

His patience has expired. You hear the clink of his belt buckle, the rustle of fabric. One of his large, blunt hands at your waist, ungentle in moving you where he wants you, which is, to your amusement, on your back.

Funny how the gruff one is romantic at heart.

“Legs up, darlin.” One hand on the back of your thigh, the other on his erection-- good lord, he’s huge, Dutch wasn’t kidding-- Arthur aligns the head of cock with your asshole.

There’s a sting as he pushes in past that tight ring of muscle. It gives way to a delicious pressure, a building fullness. You reach down your body and start rubbing slow, lazy circles on your clit, fixated on Arthur all the while. Let him see the flush of pleasure, let him see that face you know you make when you get fucked properly, let him see how damn _good_ he’s making you feel.

He strokes into you, shallow at first, though you can tell it’s a struggle for him. Everything all pent up, as it is. But at your urging he gets deeper, a little faster. Looks down and makes a strangled noise watching his cock disappear into your ass and come out all shiny, over and over.

You whimper at the sensation, slip two fingers into your cunt and curl them.

“You hear that, Arthur? She likes it.”

“Will you shut your trap, Dutch? How am I supposed to hear anything with you running your mouth?”

Dutch comes over to your side. “Open up, girl.” He presents his cock for you to suck, and you gaze up at him, dazed and quivering from the divine way Arthur is taking you apart.

A moment too long. “Well, go on. It wasn’t a suggestion.”

You obey him, taking him in your mouth. Nice and thick, the musk and salt on his skin fill your senses.

He treats you with none of the reverence Arthur shows you, holding you by your jaw and fucking down your throat. It’s an odd angle, sloppy, rough. He tells you he only needs you to warm him up, because when Arthur is done, well…  
“I did pay for the whole night.” He pushes into your mouth far enough that you gag and choke, pulls out to let you breathe. You lap at the plush head of his cock, reach your free hand to cup his balls.

Dutch moans. “Regular professional, ain’t you? Where’d you learn that?”

“Paris, I imagine,” Arthur chimes in.

“Practice,” You correct them, before continuing to service Dutch, though after another moment he pulls away, out of reach.

Arthur reclaims your attention by hitching one of your legs over his shoulders and thrusting in deep. And again. He rolls his hips, stretching you with long, even strokes and then, finally, you feel his balls pressed against your ass.

“Ohhh fuck, Arthur.”

His entire thick length fully seated in you, and he stills, trembling. “You were right, Dutch. You were right.”

Dutch is back at your side once more, and he looks down at you with an imperious smirk. He smooths your hair. “I know, I know. I’m always right.”

“I should have let you take me here a long time ago. This is— she’s—“

You smile at Arthur, fingers ever circling your clit. His mien softens; he bends to kiss your neck, nuzzles there with his scratchy beard.

“You can break me, you know,” you tell him quietly. “You paid for it.”

He raises his head to meet your eyes. Darkness passes across his face, you think you see shame for a moment, but then his stoic controls gives way to base wildness and he’s fucking you, fast and hard and rough.

You cling to him, relishing the way his arms and shoulders and back flex with his driving movements. The borrowed room is filled with the obscene slap of flesh on flesh, his ragged breath and your mewling whimpers.

You’re close, so close, dangerously close. Desire consumes you, maddening and insistent, you plead to him, his name, nothing else coherent.

Arthur holds you close, cradling you to him, his forehead against yours. “Good girl, that’s it, darlin, let me feel you—“ he pounds into you, relentless, fingers digging into your hips and lifting you to meet him; in this way he claims your release.

A cry tears from your throat; raw pleasure floods your senses and overflows, Arthur’s merciless rhythm wringing pleasure from every oversensitized nerve. He groans, buries his face in the crook of your neck, spends himself inside you with a low gasp. His strokes grow slower, slicker, until he’s rocking into you gently, until he’s breathing steady again, and through it all, you ride him, fingers on your clit, and your cunt empty and pulsing.

The sharp edge of your arousal has been dulled for now.

You relinquish your grasp on his arm. He withdraws after planting a chaste kiss on your forehead, studying you as he tucks himself away. 

“Well?” Dutch replaces him, flips you over.

Arthur gives no answer. Instead, he strikes a match on his boot and lights a cigarette, his eyes never leaving you, even as Dutch sinks into your wet, aching pussy. You let your eyes flutter closed, hands fist in the bedsheets, surrender to lust with that image of Arthur fixed in your mind. 

They’re gone in the early morning after taking turns with you all night; whereupon you wake to find a piece of paper torn from a notebook. It’s folded in half, nestled in your rumpled clothes. On it is a skillful drawing done in pencil. You recognize yourself immediately: your nude form sprawled on the bed, limp and sated, and an inscription underneath.

_What are any of us meant for? -A.M._


End file.
